


You're Better

by 8bitalpha



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4133448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8bitalpha/pseuds/8bitalpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash has his own brand of protocol. Tucker has a thing for listening to him work it out.</p><p>((In which Wash is sulking over being the worst in the squad.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Better

 

“Every time you open your mouth, you make things worse.”

“No, I was being nice. You’re easily the worst.”

“Just shut up.”

“Wake the _fuck_ up.”

“Would you say you have an overwhelming sense of anger, and a need for revenge?”

“ _More than you know._ ”

 

Wash let the words echo in his head as he trained harder and harder, determined to prove his once-friends wrong. Prove that they were wrong about him–that he wasn’t the worst. He was the only one who survived the Project, right? Up until the very _goddamn end_. They didn’t have any goddamn right to treat him the way they did–even _if_ they didn’t mean it.

He growled as he threw his frustration into his punches, each burst of pain through his hand nearly blinding as the sound rang in his ears. _Liars_. A high hit, like the bullet aimed for South’s head.

 _Thieves._  Chest level–echoing the shots that left York bleeding on the metal ground in the care of his A.I. 

 _Traitors_. Two punches to either side, piecing together how Carolina said that Connie had died.

 _Murders._  A tackle. A tackle that ripped the punching bag out of the ceiling and on the ground beneath him, his knees on the ever-shifting shoulders of the Director, of Hargrove, of Felix, of Locus, of any and everyone who had ever lied or cheated or stolen from him, dead or alive. With shoulders came a neck. A neck he could wrap his hands around and squeeze and shake until his knuckles screamed and every joint in his hand cracked. With a neck came a face. _Faces_. Faces that he could scream at and shout at and scold and swear until his throat burned or his chest ached or both. It usually ended with both.

This was becoming routine. Almost like a protocol–a mandatory course of action each and every day that left him breathless and angry and ready to kill. This…routine was the only thing that kept him from storming from whatever base this was considered to be and tracking down Hargrove and his mercenaries himself. Really the only thing keeping their little group–”family”, as Caboose called it–together.

The only thing keeping him around was a battered sand bag that was tied to the ceiling, and a shit list a mile long.

***

He never could figure out why, but Tucker always felt the need to listen in on Wash’s little screaming matches with himself. It was interesting to listen to–hearing him swear and shout at dead Freelancers or magician mercenaries. He’d just get so…angry. Angry at nothing. Angry at a sand bag. Sometimes he would call it names–mostly Locus or Felix, but Connie or CT or whoever the Freelancer chick in brown was to him, sometimes at York, once at North, lots of South–she was that one that shot him in the back that one time, and apparently he shot her in the face and blew up her dead body as retaliation. “Had to be done,” he’d claimed. Hell, at this point, Tucker knew better than to argue with him when the pissing contest with himself began.

“They were right. All of them. York, South, CT, all of them. I’m fucking useless. I was recruited because of pure dumb fucking–” Wash cut himself off and dropped his fists, straightening his back as he cut the sand bag from the ceiling. “I know you’re there, Tucker. Stop lingering.”

Tucker gulped and shuffled out of his not-so-hidden hiding place, awkwardly waving. “ _Hey_ , Wash. What’s…what’s going on, dude?” He drawled, the…odd aspect of his situation made even more prominent when Wash muttered something under his breath that Tucker couldn’t hear.

“What do you want, Tucker? I’m…I have…Why are you in here?” Wash snarled as he commenced cracking his already-bleeding knuckles.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing–Locus kinda kicked your ass, back there.” Tucker mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as his chuckle failed to bring any sort of light to his friend’s eyes. Wash merely blinked before grinding his teeth and starting his pacing–fucking _pacing_. Pacing like a goddamn teenager angry, at his mama for taking his phone away.

“That was part of the plan, Tucker. He was _supposed_ to attack me. It means I got through to him–said something that broke him. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what, but I will. So help me God, if I have to put Eps–” Wash cut himself off again and ripped a knife out of his boot that Tucker didn’t realize was there and threw it clear across the room, blade connecting with the target with blinding speed and accuracy.

“Holy shit,”

“Shut the up, Private.”

***

Wash didn’t sleep anymore. In the days leading up to what could very well be their final push to Hargrove, when he needed sleep the most, he found himself roaming the halls or patrolling or even reading–something he forgot he could do, most days. Everything was blurring out–memories jarring with predictions, predictions combining with facts, facts distorting lies. Every little thing, every thought, was like a damn maze. A useless mystery that lead to more anger and pain than to something good.

He didn’t remember how to sleep, how to breathe, how to love, all he could remember was war. War and pain and hatred for the people who were supposed to be his team–his family. They’d all fucking hated him in the end. Fighting was his only option now. It had been for a long time.

He didn’t remember anything anymore.

***

The thing about his training was that he knew Tucker was watching. Could feel him study every move he made, every coil of every muscle. But he usually ignored it in favor of sticking with his routine–his own little protocol.

Two blows to the head and one to the chest with a blast rifle. He could see Locus stumble instead of the target going down. Could imagine the anger and fear on Felix’s face as a knife burrowed itself in his abdomen as it had with Tucker. Could feel the rage boiling over at the creeping thought of how York or North would handle a situation like this. He knew how Carolina would–she was already planning her end of the assault. It was all up to him, now.

Hargrove would be _fun_. He’d take his time with him–a luxury he hadn’t gotten when they took down the Director. Correction, when the cowardly sack of shit had taken himself out. A small part of Wash still resented Carolina for not putting a bullet through his skull right there–for not lighting him up like she had just been _aching_ to for their entire escapade.

Every muscle in his body burned at the end of every day, his joints sore, knuckles bleeding and–in a worst case scenario–broken, but he still kept with it. Kept with his little protocol–really the only thing in his life that was constant. Steady. Simple.

Nearly as simple as calling Tucker out on watching him every day.

***

He was being particularly hard on himself today. Tucker could hear him swearing and grunting and growling to himself like he was having his ass handed to him. “You’re your own worst enemy, you know.” He blurted out and Wash halted, tensing his shoulders. “You’re wrong–which isn’t as rare as you think, Mister Super Soldier.” He continued, crossing his arms and trying to act more nonchalant than he felt.

“I’m…not sure I understand what you’re talking about.” Wash growled– _fucking liar._

“You're in here calling yourself all of this fucked up shit, when you know it isn’t true. You _know_ it isn’t. But you hide out in here, day after miserable fucking day, because it’s easier. Because if you hide, you don’t have to deal with the absolute shit that’s going down in the war room and you can just wait for us to get dumped at the Capitol so that you can try to win all alone.” Tucker snapped and Wash bristled, but the aqua soldier kept at it.

“You honestly think that any of us are going to let you go it alone? You think that we’ll let you fight and die by yourself? Well guess what, jackass, you’re stuck with us. You busted your ass to help us and protect us and tried to keep us safe at Bravo, and you did a damn good job at making us soldiers. So stop feeling fucking sorry for yourself and get back in there. Be the _real_ leader that these people need instead of something to fear.”

Wash’s hands tensed at his sides and his breathing practically echoed through the room just as loud as his strikes had. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The fuck I don’t! I hear you in here–and I’m sure the rest of them do, too. We all hear you beating yourself up. Putting yourself down. It’s _bullshit_. You’re better than you say you are. You are _so much fucking better_ , Washington. Yeah, you can be a royal pain in the ass and a major dick sometimes, but you’re still family. You’re better than all of those Freelancer fucks– _you made it_. And you’re going to _keep_ making it. All you have to do is let us help you. Okay?” Tucker’s tone softened near the end and he extended his hand for Wash to shake or hold or pull or do something, but when the Freelancer didn’t react, he turned on his heel and started walking from the room.

“Okay, Tucker. Help me.”


End file.
